


Like furious thorns

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Literary RPF, To Walk Invisible (2016)
Genre: Belonging, Family, Feminist Themes, Gen, Nature, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Discovery, Treat, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: Here, in their wild workshop, they weave the words together, they weave the world.A short story about the Brontë sisters, their wild landscapes and their words.





	Like furious thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lirazel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/gifts).



> This story was inspired by two wonderful things: Lirazel's [Yuletide prompt](https://lirazel.dreamwidth.org/754004.html) and ["Church not made with hands"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wN7Ig1n4gy4), by The Waterboys.
> 
> I love the Brontë sisters, so if something in this fic sounds familiar, it was definitely inspired by their words. It hopefully captures all my feels about them, although Charlotte's voice got a bit louder. As a fellow short person with an angry temperament, I thought that it was very appropriate!

She comes home.

With the wet sidewalks and grey days, she comes home, back to their world. There is a room of glass here, deep in the heart of the moors. It is cramped and cold. Sometimes, there is shouting and fire. There is rage in empty spaces, in endless days that hide tears and regret.

The sky gets darker, it breathes lightning. And here is the real world.

Meanwhile, her steps learn about the cold and the sky and the fog. There is another little world here, among the pain. It isn't much. It is barely enough. But it belongs to her. And she will fight for it. She will write.

There is a story, here in this house. They know. And they will find it. When evening falls, she moves the bottles to the side. She replaces them with a light, to last all through the night.

The fog hides the sky. And the candle burns, and they sit at the table, and they write. All through the night. It's dark out there, but here, they are an island. Here, they huddle close together, safe. They keep the storm out, out and away. Here, in their wild workshop, they weave the words together, they weave the world.

They have their own language. Ink stained fingers, a little laughter, books and brave souls. Silent and wild, peaceful and true. Poetry and paper, brittle bones and breaths. Fragile, but so honest, so strong. This is how they are. This is why she loves them.

And they write, and they weave it, that little world. They gather it up and tie it with string. They hide it behind their invisible faces. Yes, this is who they are.

But it is hard sometimes, this world they have built. It is full of staircases and doorways and silences. It is beautiful, but cracked. Cracked by all their reality. Cracked by all the rage. And the outside world hurts. It is bleak and harsh, it does not want them. But no matter. If it strikes, she strikes harder. There is glass in her eyes. In her words, in her hands and in her heart. She is used to it. It grows all around them. And it helps. It gives them cover, it keeps the world out.

She is small and rough. She persists. She can bear it. Her heart can be like lead and wood. But she is not a toy soldier. No, she is not. She is not a sparrow either. They are fiery, it is true. But they are tiny as well, and it is not funny to be like them. No, it is not funny. Fierce little lady, they say. Yes, her dress is brown and dull. But Charlotte would rather be the moor. Or the wind. Or both, because there is never one without the other.

Here is the world. Red fire, red light. Over and over, the same melancholy, the same moon. All through the years. The world is what it is. But it won't destroy her. She has too much rage. And she has the snow and the wind and the bells. Such a precious place, out here. Here, she is never alone. Here, the real world fades, and she is someone. She is alive.

But she is not unkind. When she gets too lonely and she needs the world, it is always there for her. She knows. And she walks out, out there, with the morning sun and the dogs, with Emily and Anne. She walks and no one sees her, no one but the moors. She goes to them, and it's alright, it's enough, because they _know_.

She walks, and she talks to the wind. She tells it her dreams, and she picks up new ones. Dreams like drops of ink, unrelinquished. Dreams about the birds and the ocean and the clouds. And about the words, always the words, invisible but important. And they are never wrong. She cradles these dreams, gently, she keeps them close to her heart. And she saves them, for the poems and the night.

She has the blue nights, the world in her pocket. Her body, down in the fields, her eyes, looking up at the sky. High, high as the clouds. Here, she can hide. She can be everywhere and nowhere. A bit like a shadow, like faith. Invisible. But not forever. She is lonely, but fierce. Like the mountains, like the wind. Like the words they bring to her. They rise and they roar, in prayer. Like the proud, wild landscapes within, like her quiet rage.

And they walk, like three lights, out there, written into another story. Like _them_ , quiet sparks, storm-troubled, their secret words in the fire and the glass. Stones and feathers and the endless moors, cut halfway across by the sky. They heal their own scars. They sleep, they remain. And they find a sort of freedom. Yes, this is who they are. This is all they should be.

And the sky soars, and their moorish world is paused. Waiting. And now, it makes sense. She breathes. She sees herself, here in this world. She is not alone. She can live here, she can _be_. And yes, here is a story. She believes it. And she tells the world, to keep a secret between them. These words, significant, like wild flowers, sharp and real. These whispered words, here to belong forever, like furious thorns, like flames. Yes, they hurt sometimes. But still, she carries them home. Gently, like dreams. To make new stories, to make new worlds.


End file.
